The Wistful Mirror
The mercury in the thermometer climbed to a hundred and two, a steady, sickening rise that marked the third hour of the Duke’s fever. Arthur Vane stood in the gilded antechamber, his hands wrapped around the Duke’s severed left hand, a relic preserved in formaldehyde within a glass jar that sat heavy on the mahogany table. The liquid inside was cloudy, and as the moonlight pierced the high...
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